


Bona Fide

by netweight



Category: Angel: the Series, Supernatural
Genre: Character Study, Crossover, M/M, Sexual Content, Surprise Pairing, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-09
Updated: 2008-03-09
Packaged: 2017-10-22 07:44:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/235761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/netweight/pseuds/netweight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In good faith.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bona Fide

**Author's Note:**

> Set pre-series for Supernatural, pre-season 5 for Angel. Knowledge of both shows necessary.
> 
> Beta'd by the very wonderful Regala Electra.

He's in a bar, rat hole on the wall, west of nowhere, New Mexico. Dead of summer and the cold beer the only thing going for it, crowd of strangers to get lost in.

There's this guy. Singing. Heartbreak and cold like he knows what he's talking about.

Dean can't help the twist to his mouth, 'cause it's fitting, this guy telling it like it is.

A few days ago, two, three, a week, he's not counting, he's had his heart served on a plate.

'If you wanted to leave you could have just said so!'

He hadn't.

He's been driving ever since.

Doesn’t know what he was thinking. So much for honesty, huh?

He'd get trashed but he figures that would end badly. Doesn't want a black patch of time he can't account for, end up pouring his soul in some chick's lap. Look what that got him.

What he needs is a quick fuck, push matched to shove and no strings attached, you don't call me, I don't call you, and not having to think about all the things he doesn't get to have.

That he doesn't get to have anything.

Yeah, not thinking sounds like a good plan.

Not thinking has him thinking that this guy sounds just right about what he needs.

He settles to watch. Listen because he's got a nice voice. Bluest eyes Dean remembers seeing in a long time and a wiseass smile to go with, the kind you want to wipe out with either your fist or your mouth.

His body loosens with that first pooling of heat and he goes with it.

The bar is this side of hushed, other people paying attention too. Not much else to do, too hot to dance, only breathe and listen.

It's another couple of songs before he notices there's something not quite right about him.

It takes Dean a while to figure out.

His shirt is done almost all the way up. Buttoned sleeves too.

A pin prickle of warning runs up his spine.

He licks his lips.

Catches the guy's eyes and holds the stare.

Waits.

 

  
He buys him a drink and leans against the bar. Nods at the guitar propped up against the stool.

"You're good." He means it too. "What you're doing in a place like this?"

The guy downs a couple of gulps before ducking his head. Staring at the bottle.

"It's not so bad. Plenty of sun." He laughs low at that, like it's a private joke that isn't all that funny.

That flicker again. Danger, danger.

The guy looks up at that, as if sensing it.

"Buying time, man, you know how it is."

Dean doesn't. Never stuck around a place long. Worse since Sam left.

"I'll be heading west soon. California."

Figures. Story of Dean's life.

"La-la land?"

"What gave me away?"

One of the songs. Dean just shrugs. "Planning on making it big down there?"

The guy chuckles. "Something like that, yeah."

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing. Just that I got some unfinished business there."

Dean arches an eyebrow. "Someone's getting his due?"

The guy slants a glance his way at that, eyes sharp. Measuring him up.

His mouth curves, rattlesnake smile.

"Let me guess," Dean says. "There was this woman."

The smile gets meaner, then warms up. Just like that.

Well, if he ain't all charm.

He takes a hand off the bottle and traces a finger very deliberate along Dean's arm.

"Now what makes you say that?"

Dean flicks a glance down to where they're touching, then up again.

"Isn't it always?"

"What you're doing here then?"

Stupid, crazy shit.

The guy's face hardens.

"We’re gonna get this show on the road or what?"

His gut is telling him this is a really bad idea.

He downs the rest of his beer, stands up.

"Lead the way."

 

  
He stops dead as soon as he crosses the motel room door and his hand goes for his gun.

Fuck, fuck. Runes painted everywhere, on the walls and the windows and even carved into the wood at the head of the bed.

 _Fuck_.

He trains the gun to the back of the guy's head.

"Christo."

The guy turns around real slow. Eyes clear. Amused.

"Well, I'll be damned. A bona fide hunter."

Dean's handgun jerks and the guy's hands go up at that.

"Hey, hey! None of that now, real live human here."

And yeah, Dean can see that but it doesn’t mean he’s one of the good guys.

He nods at the symbols.

"Start talking."

He brings his hands down slowly.

"Told you. Buying some time."

"Keep them up."

He halts the motion. Stands there as if considering his options. Then starts unbuttoning one of his cuffs.

"Stop!"

Christ, but he hates it when they're dealing in weird magical crap, never knowing what's gonna come next. Leaves him unbalanced.

"Look, man, just gonna show you something. Don't go all trigger happy on me."

He rolls the sleeve up and holds up his arm.

The markings are there too. Inked in black swirls.

"They're for protection."

"And what would you be needing protection from?"

He starts on the front buttons. Smirks.

"Let's just say my former employers were none too happy with my departure."

"Yeah? And what line of business are you in exactly?"

He opens the shirt and Dean is momentarily distracted.

They're all over him. He breathes in a startled "holy shit," and his gun comes down fractionally.

It's just a moment.

The guy surges forward at that, moves way, _way_ too fast and the next thing he knows the gun is being knocked out of his hand and he's eating carpet, one arm twisted behind his back.

"Well, I used to be a lawyer."

 

  
He shoves him down once, for good measure. Hand to the back of his neck, too much force behind it, making a point. Then backs up, lets go.

Dean turns to watch him place the gun on the dresser.

"Door's right there. Don't let it hit on your way out."

Dean gets up cautiously. He could just leave now. Come back later. Because no way anyone that juiced up is playing on the level.

The guy barks a laugh.

"You got balls, I'll give you that."

What is he, goddamn psychic too? No way his poker face is that bad.

"Yeah? Not all of us rely on black mojo to get the job done," Dean shoots back before he can think the better of it.

The guy goes still.

"You presume too much. I'm not your fire and brimstone type." Snorts. "Believe me, the world doesn't need my help to end up in the sewer."

"And I'm what? Supposed to take your word for it?"

"I could have killed you just now. Didn't."

The man's got a point.

"Look, I've got no beef with you. I'm not saying I don't got my tally but I'd rather not add to it, if it's all the same to you." He stops at that and looks Dean up and down. Smirks a bit. "It would be a shame. So let's say we let this one slide, go on our merry ways, huh?"

And really, sometimes you should just quit while you're ahead.

"I'd like my gun back."

The guy smiles again. "Yeah, I don't think so."

"I'm not leaving without my gun."

"Come and get it then, cowboy."

Son of a bitch.

 

  
Dean's pretty sure he meant to wind up the night in bed. Maybe he wasn't counting on the pinioned wrists but, all things considered, it makes a nice change from being shown the way out after laying it all out on the line. Especially after having leveled a gun to the guy's head.

He's not entirely comfortable with being watched this closely though, straddled and unable to move.

He bucks his hips trying to speed things along.

"Dude, not a girl. Fuck me already."

But the guy just goes slowly. "Sshh. Gonna take real nice care of you."

And turns out he's really as good as his word, hands spread down his stomach and gripping his hip, clever, clever mouth and Dean comes with his toes digging into the mattress and his vision going white.

"Jesus _fuck_."

 

  
He stripes his tongue up his palm and brings it down, fingers curled loosely.

"You tease. Gonna pay for that later."

"Yeah?" Dean asks distractedly, nuzzling beneath his jaw.

Stops when he finds the scars. Looks up to find wary eyes looking back.

They stare at each other in silence.

His eyes flick down to the spot again, rubs a finger against it.

Gets a low moan in reply.

Closes his mouth over it, his teeth. Firms his grip and bites. Hard.

The guy goes stiff all over, strangled keen in his throat. "Oh, oh, you fucker."

 

  
It's early the afternoon of the next day and they're lying in bed doing nothing. The guy is toying lazily with the cord around Dean's neck, chin propped on one hand.

"I've met your type before."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Big strapping hero, helping the hopeless."

Dean digs his chin down, thinks it over.

It's not the way he sees things, sees himself. He doesn't think this man would believe him though.

"Naa."

"No?" The tone is light, mocking.

He thinks of all those people behind the white picket fences. Regular lives, regular families.

"Not hopeless."

He gets a startled look at that. Clearly not the answer he was expecting.

"You meant what you said earlier?"

"About what?"

"The world ending up in a sewer."

His hand stills.

"Yes."

He doesn't like to think they're all doomed. What would be the point of saving them then?

"I think you got it wrong."

The guy looks at him for a long time. Touches the amulet and picks it up, turns it around curiously in his fingers.

"Who gave you this?"

Dean looks down at it, answers gruff.

"My brother."

He closes his hand around it, over Dean's heart. Is silent for a beat.

"He must like you a whole lot."

Yeah, that's why he ran away. Still he can't help the rush of warmth, of pride. Sam.

He shrugs.

"He's at Stanford now."

"Yeah? Studying what?"

"Dunno."

The guy looks oddly at him but doesn't comment. The silence stretches, awkward.

"You got any siblings?" Dean asks finally, something to say.

"Yeah."

He doesn't say anything else. Gets this faraway, somber look on his face.

Dean worries his bottom lip. Feels like he should apologize even if he doesn't know what for.

Not everyone got a white picket fence.

He coughs, starts, "Look, maybe we should just not -"

That does earn him his eyes back on him. Earns him a smile, a true one.

He brings his hand up, traces Dean's eyebrow with his thumb, the gesture strangely affectionate. Intimate.

He speaks quietly, a note of awe in his voice.

"You really are the real deal, huh?" And then almost too low to catch, low enough to ignore, "Where were you three years ago?"

Dean tenses up at that and their gazes lock.

Time ticks by.

The guy breaks away first, smiles again, rueful this time.

Dean reaches up and grasps the back of his neck, tugs him down.

"Let me show you how real I am."

Beneath his hands, the scars tell him it wouldn't be enough.

The angry black ink that he's already too late.

 

  
He's finishing getting dressed when the guy extends him a folded piece of paper.

"Phone number?" he jokes.

"You wish," the instant reply before he sobers up. "No, look. Take it."

"What is it?"

He checks the safety and holsters the gun at the back of his jeans. Shrugs his jacket on.

"Just... something. If you ever find yourself in a jam."

He opens it up to find a hastily drawn pentagram inside a circle. Frowns in distaste.

"Look, man, I want nothing to do with this shit."

"It's perfectly safe." A corner of his mouth curls up. "Look it up, you don't have to take my word for it."

"Yeah? And what's it supposed to do?"

"Protection. To keep you safe. Just make sure to place it over your heart."

"Yeah? And how's that working out for you?"

Dean makes an aborted gesture toward him, tilts his head to make his meaning clear.

The guy's laugh is small, snide.

"They don't make them for that yet, hunter."

 

  
Years later, Dean will find out he was right in more ways than one.

Seeing the protective sigil being drawn on Sam's chest, he'll think he never even knew the guy's name.

 

* * *

 

Bona fide. In good faith. The mental and moral state of honesty, conviction as to the truth or falsehood of a proposition or body of opinion, or as to the rectitude or depravity of a line of conduct, even if the conviction is objectively unfounded.

  
I want all this marked on my body.

\- Katharine Clifton, _The English Patient_


End file.
